


my house of scents

by tigerbox



Category: After School (Band), SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Gen, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerbox/pseuds/tigerbox
Summary: seungcheol lives in a house that consumes him. but he doesn't see it that way.





	my house of scents

**[HE IS]** used to it, the smell of that lingers in the wall of this house. This house, his house, the house he buys with his own well earned money, years and years of saving up every penny with good cause. The members deserve it, he tells himself when he inks his signature on the dotted lines, a place of their own. It is rather an easy choice to buy the house on the top of the hill, on the outskirts of Seoul, high gates, withering trees abound, the permanent look of antiquated history no matter how much it is cleaned.

 

 

 

This house, with this smell, the unwavering smell of something rancid, impure, and unfriendly that permeates deep under the floorboards and the cracks of the window pains. Jeonghan is the last one there that resides with him - Seungcheol thinks he’s gonna live there forever, some sort of unwedded matrimony or whatever, but then Jeonghan is there at the foot of the entry, bags packed, faded Louis Vuitton emblems barely visible with the heavily drawn curtains that haven’t been opened in some time. He has a flair for dramatics, Jeonghan, and in true Jeonghan form he pulls his plaid scarf from his neck up to cover his nose, to make his point, “It’s the house, Seungcheol. I can’t take it anymore. It smells like shit. It is shit.”

“Weak,” Seungcheol responds when the door closes and Jeonghan doesn’t knock to say he’s sorry, and move back in. Whether it’s the response that’s weak or if it’s Jeonghan’s weak, it doesn’t matter what he means. For the first time in thirteen years, Seungcheol is living alone.

First things first, he calls the cleaning service. It’s been a long while since they’ve last been there, the seclusion of this bourgeois house a bit out of the norm perimeters. They’ll clean it up, they’ll make it look spotless, they’ll be able to get rid of the smell that everyone speaks of but that Seungcheol cannot grasp.

He opens the curtains that are drawn shut in the living room corridors, hoping to let the sun shine in and bask the house to life - but there is no sun. See, Seungcheol? Ah, he remembers belatedly, because of the trees he planted there on the east end of the house when he first bought it. Maple trees and some oak, a little shy over ten years ago and now they are barely tall enough to cloak the house from the outside, shrouded in a little mystery.

Jeonghan said another thing before he had left, closing the door, giving Seungcheol one last look of bracing pity; “You’re deluded.”

But if there’s one thing Seungcheol is sure of is that he’s not delusional. He whole heartedly loves this house, one hundred percent - this home, if anything makes him happy. He takes walks around it, now that he can, unbothered by schedule after schedule like it used to be. He has the time to relish in its old charms, original tiles, fancy pillars, chandeliers missing bits and pieces that you could only see if you looked really closely. Seungcheol always looks closely, he loves things like that - the finer details in life. Spending years on the road could do that to a person.

Still, he frowns when he lets the cleaning crew in the next day, ready to show off his pride and glory with glee, only to be met with shudders and exchanged glances of worry. They clean in silence, ignoring Seungcheol’s meddlesome lurking, before he finally retreats to his room, unwanted, marred by the presence of others. On the way out, the ajhumma who cleans the restrooms the old fashioned way on hands and knees because it’s the practical way, takes his hand and holds it with concern telling him, “This house isn’t safe, boy. You shouldn’t be living here.”

Silly antics, grown people overgrown with fright over nothing. Seungcheol loves this house, loves what it means.

He remembers when they first moved in during the winter when they only had three consecutive days off before flying somewhere else again. The look when he gave Dino the key, making the youngest open it. “Go ahead Chan,” he pushed him, teeth radiating with his gummy smile. Everyone lit up, taking in the grand majestic quality of the house, or perhaps, more simply just how big it was. For them. No more cramping in dorms, split apartments, allocating time between shared bathroom living, squabbling over the toothpaste - they had a house, and it was all theirs.

“I should have bought it,” Woozi mentions, uneasy in the kitchen, opening the cupboards and then closing them again. They had fucking cupboards and tons of them too - they were going to have to buy kitchenware now. Like actual adults. “Take my money.”

Seungcheol laughs, because it’s so like Woozi to have belated guilt and mull over the present. “Don’t sweat it Jihoon. I had to do it, you know? I’m the leader.”

 

 

 

 **[HE IS]** the leader, leader all alone now, abandoned by all of his members. Joshua was the first to leave, Seungcheol remembers a bit resentfully. How he turned a bit distant the first few times they returned to the house after being overseas, the sudden change in his moods, how he was barely present even when his body was. First, he moved back to the dorms, claiming the need for solitude, and then all of a sudden he was somewhere back in Los Angeles, the city of angels, leaving the group, pleading them to understand for his sanity. The City of Angels fit Joshua Hong very well - but Seungcheol only felt betrayal.

It happened in threes after that - the foreigners left first: Jun, Minghao, and even Vernon - whose mother insisted he move back home. Not this home, the other one - with a mom and dad, and a sister. Seungcheol huffed - because he thought this was a home, a family. Then it was Wonwoo, and Dino and Dokyeom who all claimed the need to leave - health issues and all that, doctors citing abnormal allergies - location, location, location. Whatever, Seungcheol miffed - he’d gotten the house with great fare at a steal because of its remote location, somewhere where they’d never be found.

Seungcheol couldn’t even remember who left after that, in the course of the next few years - Seungkwan maybe, then Hoshi, Woozi, Mingyu - who’d always been a stickler for cleanliness but also loyalty forced to choose one over the other. Then it’d just been him and Jeonghan for what seemed like ages, fighting over what to watch on Netflix and who left the coffee grounds in the sink, whose turn it was to take out the trash, and what to do for dinner. He’d adapt to the all the changes over the years, but even Seungcheol had to admit, the first one and last one had hit him the hardest.

 

 

 

Nana comes to visit him once, bringing over a box of candles and chocolates, frou frou things. “This place just needs a woman’s touch,” she says, walking in with her high heels and fragrances. Seungcheol can’t remember the house being so vibrant, nor can he remember the last time he’d seen her, this sunbae of his that went way back. She’s more famous now, one of those A list actresses with a bunch of trophies and while his career takes more of a backburner for him, hers is only flourishing. Still, she treats Seungcheol the same, fondly cupping his chin when she walks past, lighting a candle with a different scent in every room for good luck.

They sleep together, of course - he’d be an idiot not to, and her visit from overnight turns into a week - lazy afternoons tucked in bed, half read contemporary magazines littering the floor alongside their knickers and socks. This isn’t such a bad way to live, Seungcheol figures, waking up in the mornings to the sight of Nana’s bare shoulders, loose hand lost in the waves of her hair. But even she, with the advice that Seungcheol needs to go outside some more and get some sunlight leaves when the next Sunday comes along, scrunching her nose, looking at the walls for some kind of obvious answer. She cooks him a wonderful breakfast, some boiled eggs and an Americano, just the way Seungcheol likes it, and then she’s gone. He notices she leaves the candles behind.

 

 

 

He’s not lonely, or at least he would never say it out loud. Months later after Nana leaves Woozi returns, the first and only member to come back after leaving. Seungcheol barely recognizes Woozi with the black hair and simple pants, but it goes the other way around too, Woozi making a face of disdain, taking in the way Seungcheol has grown his hair long, beard ungroomed, nostrils a funny shape between it all.

“When was the last time you’ve been outside Coups?” Seungcheol feigns a laugh. Coups - he hasn’t heard that one in a while. He doesn't really have a reason to go outside these days, the house has suited him just fine. He orders groceries online, toiletries, paying bills too - there’s nothing the outside world had to offer he thinks. He hasn't bought clothes in a while either, rather favoring this old suit he finds in one of the closets, fitting him a little weird, probably something Mingyu had left behind in his hurry - still, Seungcheol finds himself wearing it most days, the shade of grey fitting the contrast of the house. Woozi makes another face of exasperation pinching the sleeve of the suit but Seungcheol hardly notices, taking in how Woozi leaves his suitcase at the foyer, no signs of unpacking.

“When was the last time this house was cleaned Coups?” Everything Woozi says is a critique, finger dragging against the counters, a search for soot. He opens the blinds, coughing in the clouds of dust, gathering all of the clothes and dumping them into the washer. He brooms and mops and wipes everything down before giving up, crumpling into a small ball of fatigue on the sofa. He covers his nose when he sits, another critique - for even the sofa is in a state of despair.

“Jihoon, you’re hurting my feelings,” Seungcheol tries to pick a fight, but Woozi is too tired.

“The lady doth protests too much, me thinks,” Woozi quotes something from a book. Seungcheol vaguely remembers Woozi’s past career, the times he spent locked in a room for isolation, writing down words and then scratching them out in frustration. Oh yeah, a lyricist. A motherfucking lyrical prodigy. Woozi lifts his head from the sofa, watching Seungcheol as he picks at the food Woozi cooked for him - or rather - tried, because Woozi was never the cook of the group.

“When was the last time you ate a full meal, Coups?”

Seungcheol laughs because he can’t remember. Food is just a basic necessity after all - he has other things to be grateful for. Living, breathing, having a roof over his head. Woozi comes over, placing a gentle hand on Seungcheol’s forehead checking for a fever, something concrete to place the blame on.

“It pains me to see you like this Coups.”

Woozi, unlike Nana, doesn’t spend a week there, doesn’t even last a night. Coups keeps all the lights off downstairs, preferring his bedroom more anyway for a while. The food Woozi attempts to make him sits in the kitchen untouched, surrounded by the box of candles that Nana has left. Coups doesn’t believe in materialistic things, the house is all that matters.

 

 

 

 **[HE IS]** a recluse, a hermit, a life of contemplating peace solely. The exact opposite of being out there, putting life on display to see as a celebrity. No one comes to visit him after that last visit. He quits ordering the cleaning service, and his grocery orders become less seldom. On the eve of his thirty fifth birthday, he kisses the wall, just down the hallway from the staircase upstairs. The heart of the house, smack dab in the center - his favorite place to stand. He doesn’t smell a single thing, the odor the house is forever emitting. It gets worse the longer he lives there, seeping into his living being, soaking into the deepest parts on his conscious. It’s going to consume him, this house, this smell that festers and grows within, but it doesn’t matter because like Seungcheol repeats, he’s happy. He’ll just walk around the halls, scuffling his feet until he ages a bit, running out of food, no desire to leave and get more, perfectly content with sitting on the sofa where Woozi has sat last, where Mingyu has cleaned, where Joshua had left before, followed by eleven others.

The sad thing is, when he buys the house, the realtor warns him the house has a folklore of being haunted - Seungcheol just chooses to ignore it. How silly adults could be.


End file.
